‘You talk to the driver, Em.’
Em goes, and Elle and I help Jonny walk slowly to the car. He’s mumbling: ‘Bag.’
‘We’ve got your bag, Jonny, that’s all right.’ I grab it as we lurch past the rest of our stuff. It’s the only one containinganything incriminating, I think; there are no particular grounds for arrest in my old pants. We leave the little cairn of our belongings on the pavement as the Uber accelerates away.
Em clearly did a good job explaining the situation to the driver, because we’re at the entrance of A&E in two minutes forty-five seconds. Em is up front. Jonny’s back left. Elle’s back right. I’m in the middle, wedging Jonny upright. I can hardly read his T-shirt any more. Maybe it’s just the bad light in the cab. That must be it. That must be it.
Elle phoned ahead as we went, and there’s a little welcome party waiting for us on the ramp up to the doors. At least we did this on a quiet Tuesday night, because even in this light, I can see that Jonny’s face has turned grey, and he topples out of the cab. He would have cracked his head on the ground if there hadn’t been two paramedics waiting to scoop him up.
I try to pay the driver from my dwindling roll of banknotes, but he refuses point-blank. God bless you, Ibrahim, wherever you are now. May your back seat never be so insulted again.
And then we’re inside, as a team of doctors gather around Jonny, agree he’s suffered an abdominal gunshot wound, and consider what they’re going to do about it.
As someone who’s only ever arrived at A&E after micro-accidents and quasi-emergencies, I’ve never witnessed a full crash entrance before, and how they handle it. God, it’s impressive. You’d think there would be a lot of shouting, but there’s none. It’s more … controlled urgency.
The doctors come and go like bees. They’re talking,assessing, throwing comments to colleagues, catching them without even making eye contact, fitting drips, removing personal effects, scanning, pressing, assessing. They’re like one consciousness divided between eight bodies.
A theatre is being prepared for Jonny, someone says.He won’t like that, I think,he hates the theatre. I remember him saying that on one of our car journeys. He says it’s an ‘imperfect rendition of human behaviour’ and, like most other art forms, ‘struggles to faithfully replicate to the audience the complexities of navigating the decision matrices the world presents to us’. Plus, he finds the seats uncomfortable.
Christ, I hope he lives.
And then they’re wheeling him away. The three of us trail behind the trolley like lost children, until we reach a doorway where it’s made clear to us: this far, and no further. Jonny shrinks away from us as they pull him along the corridor. His eyes are closed, there’s an oxygen mask over his mouth, and his stupid geeky T-shirt has been cut off him and binned. Then they swing him round a corner, and that’s it.
Because this isn’t a US daytime TV drama, there is no observation room from which we can watch the surgery while looking nervous. And now we’re alone, we are no longer the devoted friends of a seriously injured young man. We are just three more obstacles to a clear corridor. We find an empty bench, facing one of the hospital’s main stairwells, and sit watching as all human life walks, paces, shuffles, or wheels past us.
After ten minutes of silence, I go and get a few cones ofwater from the machine. As I arrive back, a young doctor is in my spot, speaking to Elle and Em. He’s about my age, dressed in scrubs, and irritatingly handsome.
He’s saying: ‘… do of course need to ask you some questions.’
‘Of course,’ says Elle, and Em gives me a nervous look.
I’ve stopped next to them now, and the doctor takes me in too.
‘What sort of questions?’ I ask.
‘Well, we’ll have to contact the police.’
‘Don’t do that,’ I say, a bit too fast.
‘Why not?’
What do I say? If I say Jonny was shot by someone we know, they’ll say it’s vital we talk. If I say he was shot by a stranger, they might be quite interested in tracking the gunman who’s been shooting random passers-by. I can’t think of anything. I’ve completely run out of lies. I open my mouth, close it again, look at the girls for help. Em saves me.
‘Because wearethe police.’
The doctor’s face is a mask. (Given that we’re both in a hospital and post-Covid, that is a confusing sentence in two separate ways. To be clear, he’s not wearing a mask, he just keeps his expression blank.) ‘Are you? With the Met, or a different department?’
‘The Met. This was a plain-clothes operation. He shouldn’t have been anywhere near it, but it went wrong. We’ve notified our colleagues.’
‘Do you have your ID?’
Em pulls rank. ‘Mate, do we look like we gathered our stuff properly? Our colleague’s been shot.’
He nods. ‘Oh. Well. You’ll be following your procedures. I won’t disturb you any further.’ He stands, and stretches his arms. ‘Can I help with anything else?’
‘Is our friend going to be all right?’
The doctor looks at me. ‘I hope so. But I’m afraid it’s not really my department.’ He saunters off, looking just a bit too cool. I am a diehard supporter of the NHS, but I would cheerfully see that guy struck off.
